No, she wouldn’t like to imagine what would happen if soldiers attempted to drag Murdoch off to war if he didn’t want to fight. If he could call up thunder over a mere wound, his fury would most likely eradicate the village.
“I’ll need to hide until my task is done, and you’re too visible,” he called from the bath.
She tried to block out the distracting image of a naked Murdoch in a heated pool. While she worked her Healing, she could look on him as a patient, but not now. Now, he was all perfectly formed male, and the only one she’d ever craved. Rather than wallow in lust, she needed to consider this new development.
Had the villain in the woods been the first sign that they were being spied on? If so, she agreed that she needed to leave. She might have been isolated on Aelynn, but she’d listened to the crew of every ship that had arrived, and read the newssheets they’d brought back. She was aware of the fear and anger driving the vengeful actions of the Paris Tribunal, which preferred imprisonment and bloody executions to impartial trials. They both had to leave.
And she realized she didn’t want to go, that she was enjoying this respite. Was that selfishness? She wanted Murdoch to herself, to share the bath he’d made with his own two hands, to watch her rosemary seeds grow, to live as a normal person did, for just a little longer.
She had thought she was running to find Murdoch. Was she, instead, running away from herself? She acknowledged the possibility. To endure the duties of an Oracle without any of the recognition or authority seemed pointless. She’d done that all her life, with no reward but the loss of the one man she wanted. Here, she was in charge of her own destiny, and she was developing a taste for it. And a hunger to know more of what she’d been denied.
Perhaps . . . if they had to leave this place, she could accept that Murdoch was right—she couldn’t take him home, not while his suppressed angers caused unpredictable destruction. If her task was to help him learn to control his talents, then she had reason to linger in this world a while longer.
Unthinkingly, she rubbed her aching nipple as she wanted Murdoch to do. Recognizing her desire, she acknowledged that staying with Murdoch tempted fate.
Lissandra knew about the physical attraction of an amacara bond—those whom the gods intended to mate for life had instant, magnetic pulls that were difficult to resist once they were recognized. And the bond was impossible to break once they indulged in sexual congress.
The physical bond between her and Murdoch had always been that strong. She feared that if they made love, the gods would unite their fates for eternity.
Being physically bound to a dangerous man like Murdoch, one who could capture her heart, would be suicidal. No matter how much she desired to learn the pleasures of lovemaking, she’d not enjoyed her freedom long enough to wish for that form of slavery.
She heard Murdoch splashing in the warm water, felt the physical draw of his presence. Even as she went outside to cool off, she wondered: how could she Heal him if she had to keep him at a distance?
Later, when it came her turn to bathe, Lissandra applied a mental bolt to the curtain. She didn’t have to read Murdoch’s mind to grasp the reason for his restless pacing. Their proximity affected him as much as it did her. She’d left him testing his Healing arms by pushing his weight up from the floor. She suspected the instant she left the room, he used the kitchen knife as a sword to practice his thrusts and lunges. Perhaps she should find some way of retrieving his weapons. If only she knew why he’d given them up.
She needed guidance—should she leave this humble cottage as Murdoch insisted? Could she possibly take him back to Aelynn while his gifts were still so volatile?
She sank beneath the water scented with herbs of peace, felt the tension seep out of her, and let her mind drift to that cloud where she could converse with her spirit guide.
The imp whirled with impatience. Nothing new. It was one of the reasons Lissandra had learned outward serenity, to conceal her inner impatience.
How can I help him? she asked.
The mental image of a fairy that Lissandra had given to her spirit guide shook her tiny head and pointed through the clouds.
Sighing, wishing she would get answers to her questions instead of being shown paths that led to even more bewilderment, Lissandra mentally drifted to follow her spirit’s direction. She should have been more specific as to whom she wished to help.
The vision was alarmingly clear for once: the priest, bound to a chair with a cloth tied over his mouth. The priest’s eyes were wide with terror as one of the soldiers poked a knife threateningly at his throat. She could not hear the words, but the soldier’s expression grew angrier as the priest kept shaking his head in denial.
Trying to restrain her panic, she edged backward from the vision, scanning the room. More soldiers. More than the lazy two she had encountered earlier.
And another presence—one she could not see but who seemed more menacing, more smug, as if he had arranged the priest’s capture and torment.
She renewed her concentration, sending her senses in all directions. It wasn’t as easy here as it was on Aelynn. Her powers were more diffuse the farther she traveled from home. Of course, she usually sought counsel only on individuals she knew. She didn’t think she knew the shadowy man.
Or did she? There was something vaguely familiar. . . .
He was an Aelynner!
Her spirit guide leapt up and down in agreement.
Lissandra struggled to identify the stranger, but he was not someone with whom she dealt regularly. A sailor, perhaps, one of the men who were not happy to stay in one place, who traveled to all parts of the world, returning only occasionally to visit with family.
Why was an Aelynner with the soldiers? Aelynners were expected to do no harm in the Other World. As far as she knew, only Murdoch had dared defy the gods’ edict. What powers did this man have to threaten soldiers and a priest? And why?
Were the soldiers torturing the priest in hopes of finding Murdoch? Or—she remembered her sense of an Aelynn presence when she’d arrived in Pouchay—were they looking for her?
Her spirit guide nodded approval and popped into oblivion, dropping Lissandra abruptly back to earth.
She stared at the dancing candle flames around the pool and tried to pull together her vision, but fear throttled her thinking. Had she Seen the future or—worse yet—the present? The peril seemed imminent.
She needed Murdoch’s advice, but she could no longer trust it. He would do anything to send her home.
She couldn’t let that poor priest come to harm. This was why Aelynners did not belong in this world. How could she ignore injustice and not use every power within her grasp to help—even though revealing their gifts was forbidden by Aelynn law?
Lissandra smacked her hands on the bubbling water and pushed out of the pool. What good did a spirit vision do when she had no understanding of what she was shown? She was useless in this foreign land. Her education was lacking.
Which was what Murdoch had told her for years.
Mind screaming with frustration and uncertainty, she dried off and donned a tunic rather than take the time to wrestle into the heavy Other World gown.
She returned to the cottage’s main room to discover Murdoch lying flat on his back on the floor, lifting the heavy bed for exercise. The tendons of his bare arms bulged and strained, and his wide chest swelled with his efforts. The display of strength incited an unholy desire in her, nearly distracting her from her purpose.
She almost vowed to become his sex slave right there.
Only the way he deliberately ignored her and continued to overexert his newly mended wounds reminded her of the pigheaded man she was dealing with. She kicked the sole of a sandal he’d obviously made himself, for no cobbler would claim its workmanship.
“Stop that. You will pull apart every bone in your body. I need to speak with you.”
She’d never know whether he would have obeyed. A rapid pounding and a frightened cry fr
om outside drew their attention.
Murdoch lowered the bed and scrambled to his feet, placing his bulk between her and the door. Lissandra glared at his broad bare back and debated kicking him again, or biting his tempting shoulder and licking his brown flesh. Wondering how he would taste was not logical.
“Who goes there?” he called.
“Me, monsieur,” piped the widow’s son. “The committee has found our men in the forest and summoned many soldiers to arrest them! Even now they hold Père Antoine for questioning. Mama says they will send them all to the Tribunal!” His fear was tangible in his choked words.
Lissandra edged around Murdoch and opened the door. She had little understanding of the Tribunal or its formidable committee, but her vision had enlightened her to the reason for the boy’s terror. She had Seen not the future, but the present. The soldiers must be torturing the poor priest in pursuit of any other secrets the town held—like Murdoch. And his weapons.
Murdoch reached for his shirt. “I’ll be there shortly,” he told the lad. “Do you know where Père Antoine hid my swords?”
Jean shook his head. “No, monsieur.”
“I’ll find them. Stay with the lady,” he commanded.
Lissandra considered giving the imperious idiot a mental swat, but she decided it would not be conducive to peaceful understanding. “You know it is more than the priest they want, Murdoch,” she warned. “Use your head instead of your strength for once.”
He swung around and glared at her, but she could tell she’d curtailed his natural propensity for violence. His eyes narrowed as he pondered the problem.
“Why did you give the priest your swords?” she demanded.
He shot her a glare. “After seeing the damage I can do, you have to ask? I had hoped to mend instead of destroy for a change.”
He was even more appallingly attractive when admitting his faults. His dark hair had dried and curled loosely around his bronzed throat and intelligent brow like some Roman god of old. Every feature of his lean face was chiseled stone, with nothing soft about it, unless he smiled. At the moment, his mobile mouth was stern and taut with concentration.
“It is not the swords that cause harm,” she reminded him. “It is the anger in your heart.”
He scowled at that. “I told you, the committee has been watching me,” he said, dismissing her admonition. “If they have found the others, they will blame me and will not let the priest go until they have me. He has not sworn loyalty to France. They may have discovered this also.”
She could not speak of her vision in front of the boy so she chose her words circumspectly. “There is some possibility . . . I have Seen that one of our people followed me to this village,” she warned.
Murdoch nodded as if he understood what she did not. “I had already planned to take you away. Now there is more reason. But first, we must rid the village of a plague of rats.”
Lissandra sighed her regret at having the decision to leave made for her. She began to move about the room, gathering their scattered belongings. “Jean, tell your mother the herbs I’ve planted are valuable. Someone must tend them.”
The boy nodded fearfully. “You are going? What will happen to us?”
“You will follow the lessons LeDroit has taught you. You will carry water from the river for the fields if it does not rain. You will share the houses that have new roofs until others can be mended. In time, you will be fine.”
She hoped. She disliked abandoning anyone in need. But her duty was to Aelynn.
She sensed Murdoch’s suppressed rage that he could not complete the task he’d set himself, but there was no help for it, not when others might be threatened by their presence. Even the villagers would fear them if she and Murdoch used their terrifying gifts to drive off a troop of soldiers. Truly, Aelynners were not meant for this world—
Midthought, it struck her—Murdoch had actually conceded to her logic and agreed that he must leave. The situation must be dire indeed.
“Follow behind us,” Murdoch told the boy. “Slip away only when we are close to the village and it is safe.”
The boy nodded worshipfully. “What will you do about Père Antoine, monsieur?”
“Nothing saintly,” Murdoch retorted.
For better or worse, the Warrior had returned.
Ten
Murdoch clenched his fists on the mare’s reins and did his best to ignore the goddess of justice perched beside him. His inner turmoil shielded him from Lis’s righteous anger, but not her beauty as the evening breeze blew strands loose from her moonlit braid.
She’d succeeded in forcing him to face his past ambitions when all he’d wanted to do was hide from the results. When he’d first arrived in France, he’d been filled with idealistic notions of freeing the downtrodden from the yokes of tyranny. At first, he’d aided the rebel cause from within the powerful court. After it became apparent he could not save France entirely on his own, he’d attempted to work within the system forged by the revolutionaries.
It had been nine months since he’d ridden into Paris, escorting recalcitrant Bretons who’d denounced the glorious new government. Nine months since his stomach for revolution had been purged in blood . . .
Wearing the blue uniform of the Breton fédérés instead of that of the king’s men he’d worn more than a year before, Murdoch led two coaches carrying a fractious priest, a few defiant aristocrats, and several tradesmen accused of counterrevolutionary crimes. His men drove the coaches and rode alongside in an orderly manner. Their long march from the far reaches of France would end at l’Abbaye prison in Paris, where these plotters against the new government would be tried for their crimes.
Unease shuddered down Murdoch’s spine. He’d avoided Paris for this past year since the king’s arrest. Even his ironclad mental barriers could not keep out the writhing torment of hundreds of thousands of panicky, tense, and violent souls all in one festering sore of a city. The malevolence of the mob crept along his skin as he guided the entourage through streets packed with hostile citizens watching the small parade of hated aristocrats and landowners.
Using General Lafayette’s methods as his template for turning rabble into a real army, Murdoch had done his best to train his men to follow orders and resist the mob mentality that controlled the city. But even the horses danced nervously at the curses being flung at his prisoners. The Breton dissidents had been tried and found guilty in the newssheets and political pamphlets before they’d even entered the city gates.
The revolutionary government wanted blood—the king’s, the nobility’s, that of any who defied them. And lacking that, they would take the blood of any traitor to the cause. Murdoch had known that when he’d ridden through the city gates. And he was helpless to change the course of events now.
Then again, not entirely helpless. He’d forsworn using his erratic gifts in his effort to establish a place in the Other World, but he had his swords and his men and his pride.
Cheers and shouts from the crowd behind him were his first warning of trouble. Murdoch reined his stallion out of the procession.
Standing on the footboard of the second carriage, a violent protester stabbed a sword through the window at the unarmed passengers. Murdoch battened down his volatile wrath and urged his drivers to speed while he forced his mount through the mob, ordering his outriders to hold back the wave of people. Standing in his stirrups, he whipped out his saber and flashed it in the faces of the hordes, but his men were wildly outnumbered.
The mob spilled into the streets, heedless of the danger of galloping horses, heavy coach wheels, and Murdoch’s steel.
Ratcheting down his fury until his head pounded with the pain of his effort, controlling his urge to hurl fire and lightning, Murdoch yanked the stallion’s reins, forcing it to rear up on its hind feet, pawing the air and opening a path to the last coach. Sword raised high, he shouted curt commands to his men to close ranks around the coaches, but it was too late, had been too late before he’d even ente
red the city gates. No militia stepped forward to aid his men. No National Guard swarmed to protect the prisoners.
Soon the coaches would be overrun by a mob that smelled blood.
Murdoch rode down the line of his men, encouraging them to stand strong. But the rage of the mob and the release of long-pent-up hatred spilled through their ranks. In an instant, his trained revolutionary forces turned from fighting the mob to joining them—ripping open coach doors so they could seize their prey.
Enraged by their treachery, Murdoch whipped out his rapier, slicing both of his weapons through the air, hacking and stabbing at his own men to drive them back from the screaming, terrified prisoners he’d sworn to protect. Blood spilled down his hands as his greater strength decapitated a villain who was strangling a white-faced jeweler inside the coach.
Abandoning his horse, Murdoch leapt to the roof of the rear carriage. Sun flashed off the gold braid of his uniform as he swung his saber. His arms ached with the force of cutting through muscle and bone. Men cried out in death, falling to the streets, but more ran up to replace them. No longer able to hold back his inhuman strength, Murdoch wielded rapier as well as saber with the speed of a demon. Mercilessly, he gutted and pierced while the cowering prisoners prayed and wept.
The coaches raced faster. The mob surged behind them, only a few madmen still daring to challenge Murdoch’s uncanny weapons. They were almost at the gates of the prison—
Where another mob rushed out to meet them, weapons in hand, bloodlust in their eyes.
Upon spearing a soldier who turned on him, Murdoch realized he’d once trained the boy, and the shield inside his head exploded. In truth, the Revolution had sown the wind—and reaped the whirlwind. Violence had no end until all in its path was destroyed.
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